


Crates, Hallways and Moorlands, Oh My!

by tickingclockheart



Series: Petrichor and Chocolate [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Creeper Peter Lukas, Elias Bouchard Being a Bastard, Gen, Michael and Graham as best friends, Naomi and Yaz are best friends now, Naomi doesn't either, Not in a Weird Way - Freeform, Peter Lukas hate club, Yaz has a crush on the Doctor, Yaz just really doesn't like him, at all, because I say so, even though she thinks she's dead, more on that later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25179088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tickingclockheart/pseuds/tickingclockheart
Summary: There’s a heaviness in Yaz’s heart. No, not her heart. Her body. Each limb feels like a weight and her bed a grave. She does not mind being buried.Until she does.
Relationships: Yasmin Khan & Naomi Herne
Series: Petrichor and Chocolate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824097
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Crates, Hallways and Moorlands, Oh My!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of stories that will eventually have a much deeper plot. Thanks for reading! I don't think there should be any big triggers aside from mourning a perceived loss and claustrophobia.

-

There’s a heaviness in Yaz’s heart. No, not her heart. Her body. Each limb feels like a weight and her bed a grave. She does not mind being buried.

Until she does.

It’s a crate; it’s _always_ a crate ~~(like the ones at kerblam, with the doctor ),~~ but she doesn’t think much on it at first. It’s dark, spotted with dirt and rust leaks down from the metal hinges. She does not touch it.

“Why’d you phone the police?” she asks, turning to the woman with a carefully professional expression on her face. She’d been talking with a member her police districts call center while driving over here, and the man had told her it was an emergency. She’d asked him to specify, and the call had dropped. She’d had no idea what she was running into, but she didn’t expect _a crate_ of all things.

The woman is teary eyed, panicking wildly for some reason she doesn’t understand. Something about her makes Yaz weary, though she doesn’t know what.

“I-I, the box!” the woman screeches frantically, gesturing towards the box in front of them.

“Can you explain what’s wrong, ma’am?” Yaz asks.

She doesn’t get an answer, and despite the situation, which though odd, shouldn’t be raising the hairs on the back of her arms, a sense that this is _very wrong_ seeps in.

She ignores it, and tries another question, hoping that something more specific will get the woman to fill her in.

“What’s in the box?”

This sends the woman into more hysterics, and she convulses as she sobs. Yaz would swear against it, but isn’t quite sure if the grin she saw pass across the woman’s face before she ducked her head into her chest and arms was full of too-sharp teeth.

She turns around, not even reaching for her gun as she moves to open the box. ~~(The doctor didn’t like guns)~~.

She carefully unclicks the rusted lock, then peels away the top of the box with a creek.

_And then she falls._

-

_She doesn’t breathe in this dark place._

_A lonely, fallen, too-small, space._

_A taken one chimes in to hear,_

_But she cannot;_

_It clogs her ear._

-

It chokes her, dirt seeping in from all directions. It always relents just in time to make her not pass out. She wonders when it will get bored and finish the job.

She’s squeezed in tightly, and she can only guess how deep she’s in. She fell for what seemed like at least ten seconds, but she doesn’t know how far down that would be in meters. She doesn’t know anything at all.

_Yasmin Khan, you’ve been in worse places._

She’s beginning to doubt that, though, as the feeling of near-fainting passes through her before the tendrils of mud allow her to cough out the dirt and breathe, even if shallowly, until her head is only half-spinning.

She seems to drift between the choking. Her stomach is ill and the squeeze make her want to throw up, but she can barely twitch a finger, much less retch.

_Will it be over soon? Somebody save me! Help me! Please!_

It is not over.

At some point, all she can think is one word. Just one, little, tiny word.

_Doctor. Doctor. Doctor. Doctor._

She thinks she’s gone mad.

In her more lucid moments, there is a flash of hair, dark brown roots beginning to grow in and the remaining blonde bright like sunlight. There is a clack of boot buckles and the feeling of a hand slightly larger than her own holding hers.

There are frogs, and galaxies, and towers and birds-

~~(never again she’s gone she’ll always be gone the doctor is dead the doctor is dead-)~~

And then she chokes.

And it all repeats.

-

In the end, she doesn’t know who rescues her. Its fingers are too long and it’s voice gives Yaz a headache. She falls backwards in the crate into a hallway filled with spiraling wallpaper, both peeling and pristine and new and old and spiraling-

She closes her eyes,

and _breathes._

She can deal with this new place, this confusing, consuming, spiraling new place, after she calms down and _breathes_. And so, she does.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there before getting up and peaking her eyes open, only to see another door at the end of the hallway. She trusts her gut and gets up to follow it, squinting in an attempt to lessen her confusion and already growing headache.

She’s a curious person, but she doesn’t want to get killed because she looked at wallpaper. Especially after surviving _that_ for who knows how long. It would be a boring, pathetic death.

And so, she reaches the end of the hallway, and slides the door open with her palm, only to reveal Graham’s living room.

“Graham?!” she shouts in alarm, before she’s being pulled into Graham’s arms for a hug. It’s nothing like the choking feeling of dirt, and she feels safe, so she latches on to his arms.

“Cockle, I’m so glad you’re safe. I’ll make a cuppa for us both.” He turns to the kitchen, and Yaz looks around, glancing behind her.

The yellow door is not there anymore.

“You must be Yaz!” a voice comes from her left, and she glances to see the same figure she’d seen before, though she was too out of it to know when exactly that was. She places it to a few minutes ago, right after she’d fallen through the door into the hallway, though she can’t be certain.

“I am,” she says hesitantly, “who are you?”

“What a question!” it cackles, and laughs. “I’m not Michael, but you can call me Michael.”

“Can or should?”

It doubles over again, and its laugher echoes in the room uncannily.

“Did…you were the one who rescued me, right?”

“I am indeed.”

“Right…not that I’m not grateful, because, I am. Grateful that is. Very. It’s just…why did you rescue me?”

“Graham asked me to as a favor, and I did, because we’re friends.” It grins a shark’s smile, though it doesn’t seem to be malicious. She means it literally. His face is a shark.

“Right you are,” Graham returns with the tea, “you and Yaz will get on famously, eh?”

Yaz nods slowly, wondering so many things her head spins.

“How…” she gulps, looking away, “how long?”

Graham looks at her hesitantly, almost afraid to break the news.

“Two months.”

She nods, mouth dry. “Sounds about right.”

A silence falls over the room.

“Time isn’t real! No need to be down!” Michael says cheerfully. Yaz feels herself turn upside down. Or maybe it was the room. Anyway, it’s gone in a few seconds, and Yaz silently suspects this is it’s attempt at trying to console her. It doesn’t work, but she appreciates the gesture.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” she says, “the Doctor always said time isn’t linear anyway…” it’s her futile attempt to pick herself up by clinging to a lifeline that’s dead.

Michael perks up. “I might them once, you know. He was tall, Scottish. Not a nice bloke, but certainly a fun one. He liked my hallways, I think. He thought they were fascinating.”

“That’s one word for them.” Graham grumbles.

Michael grins with too many teeth.

-

After her experience with the buried, Yaz has many teary reunions. Her mother wants her to stay in the family flat, but it’s to cramped, and it’s not like Yaz can tell her what happened. Sonya is a bit more difficult, pestering her to get her to take care of herself at every given opportunity. She knows Sonya well enough to know that it’s her own way of caring, but it still feels suffocating. Her father is the easiest to talk to. He doesn’t push, but he does things with her, and seems to notice her affection for the open air. He takes her to a meadow alone to go on a walk, and he rambles about conspiracies while Yaz keeps a silent lookout.

She is given some paperwork, and is signed on to Section 31. She has always been weary of that, but for a while she was under the impression that it was just aliens. She knows now that what Section 31 deals with is very much _not_ aliens.

She moves out to an apartment in the downtown area of Sheffield, and gets a roommate to split the rent. Her name is Naomi Herne. Yaz stays with her for a few months, and celebrates with her after she gets engaged to Evan.

Then he dies.

Medical complications, undiagnosed. One in a million.

Naomi is wrecked. Yaz is content to help her in the small ways she can, making tea and doing the cooking and holding her hand and she cries. Yaz doesn’t think Naomi cared for her much, so she is surprised when she invites her to support her at the funeral. Yaz accepts, and that’s that.

-

Yaz drives.

Naomi is quiet as the trees pass in a blur, shades of green accenting the tone of the greying sky. It will rain soon, Yaz knows. They soon reach the house, and Yaz is surprised to see the size of it. It’s an old manor, dark and imposing. Yaz takes a quick glance at Naomi, who seems to be wiping a tear away from her cheek.

“Ready?” she asks.

Naomi nods.

They walk quietly together on the path parallel to the drive beyond the large fence of the house, footsteps clacking against the sidewalk in a silent mourning. The sadness is palpable. They go up to the door and knock.

The door opens, and a man stares down at him. He looks eerily like Evan, though Yaz had only met the man once.

The man seems to be sizing them up, and Naomi breaks the silence.

“I’m Naomi Herne, and this-”

The man cuts her off by shaking his head. He turns, and points inside, down a corridor to the left of the large foyer, beyond mahogany stairs.

“My son is in there. He is dead.”

He says nothing more, and then he walks away. Yaz gives Naomi a searching look, confused. Naomi gives a similar one back, and tilts her head towards the door, a signal for them to enter. There’s a rack to put their coats on, and so they do. She grips Naomi’s hand in support.

The house is silent, and Yaz feels the eyes of those in the room staring at the two of them with something akin to blame. Yaz tightens her grip on Naomi’s hand; she knows how guilty Naomi still felt and these people were very much _not_ helping.

It seems almost alien, a setting Yaz is familiar with, but this seems almost dangerous in a way. ( ~~Yaz is reminded of the small funeral they’d had for the Doctor, memories of sobbing into her mother’s black coat and~~ -)

She doesn’t think of that day. This isn’t the time for that; she’s here to support Naomi.

Yaz notices that there are no friendly faces; no friends of Evan here. She is intimately aware of the pall of tension over the room. Naomi seemed to be almost unable to breathe in the atmosphere, and so Yaz pushed her own thoughts to the side.

“Are you ready to see him?” she asks gently. Naomi gulps and nods.

They walk down the corridor and into the room. Evan is dressed in a suit, and his fast is hardened similarly to the ones she saw only seconds before. Naomi started to shake, and so Yaz held her tightly, letting her clutch her black sleeve and dig her nails into her arm.

She does not know didn’t know how long they’d been standing there, before Naomi looks to Yaz and silently communicates her decision to leave. Yaz nods, turning around, only to see a group of thirty people staring at them blankly. Naomi shrieks, caught off guard.

They are still, appraising the two women like prey. Yaz has felt like prey before, but nothing like this, not at all. Even in her encounters with beings like the Master, they hadn’t ever looked at her like…

Yaz is immediately put on alert, straightening up.

A man, old and with a long beard, steps forward. “It’s time for you to leave. The burial is a family affair. I’m sure you want to be alone.” His eyes seem to spark coldly on that last word, like a _predator_. And that’s when Yaz _knows_.

He is like the woman who’d called the police and trapped her in that place. Her eyes widen and she finds Naomi’s sleeve with her hand.

“We should go _now_.” she doesn’t take her eyes off the man, and she puts enough emphasis into the last word that Naomi’s eyes widen at her tone.

Yaz leads her to the door, but not before making eye contact with the man one last time, and seeing him smirk. She grits her teeth, pushing the dark, heavy door open and walking down the path to the car.

Naomi is crying, and leaning on Yaz.

“Well that was fucked.” Yaz says.

Naomi concurs, nodding through her tears, entering the passenger seat and slamming the door behind her. Yaz does the same.

The storm has rolled in now, and it is all-consuming, heavy rain pouring down on the car as Yaz shifts the gear and begins to drive. The way back is quiet, apart from Naomi’s quiet sobbing.

It was then that Yaz notices something was very wrong.

She didn’t know what, but it is _there_ , unavoidable and unrelenting. She’s experienced this feeling before. It was the silence before Ashad had almost found her hiding in a cybersuit. It was the moment before the Kasaavin surged forward inside of her. It was the Master’s slow reveal, the horror creeping into her _just_ before the truth came out.

And then it happens.

All of a sudden, a thick fog comes out of nowhere. Yaz can’t see, and she tries to brake, but the brake stops working. Naomi screams, and Yaz begins to frantically try to slow down. It’s too late. They both crash.

In a daze, Yaz groans, looking over to her left.

“You okay?”

“I-I’m fine. What is with this fog?”

Yaz does not know.

Remarkably, they are both uninjured, aside from a small cut on Yaz’s cheek. They exit the car, or at least Yaz thought they did, because when she turns to her side, there is no one else there.

“Naomi?” She asks, walking to her left to see if her friend is pulling a trick. It seems out of character, especially in the circumstances, but there is no way that Naomi is just _gone_. That’s impossible.

 _Then again_ , she thinks, _a lot of impossible things have been happening recently_.

~~(short blonde hair with a grey coat doctor that’s impossible nothing is impossible yaz how is it doing that technology can sometimes seem just like magic if it’s advanced enough wow)~~

 _No, not that_ , she thinks to herself frustratedly. _Like…like the crate. And the hallways. And Michael._

Maybe this is less impossible then she’d previously thought.

And she had put some thought into it; tried to convince herself that the crate was just some very complicated technology, or that Michael was some sort of alien, but she knows that it isn’t like that. There has to be something else at play, though she’s at a loss to know what.

“Naomi!” she calls again, after discovering that Naomi hadn’t been hiding after all. Naomi is just…gone.

The fog is now getting so thick it is suffocating, and it reminds her all too much of the suffocating residence she’d choked in for two months.

“At least,” she heaves, trying to steady herself, “there’s no dirt.”

None in her face at least.

Yaz wanders for what seems like hours-or days-or minutes, (she isn’t new to losing track of time), and tries to find someone, _anyone_ , to help her.

No one comes.

“Doctor! Doctor! Please! Doctor! Help me!” she screams. She knows it won’t do any good, but god, this is the loneliest she’s felt in a long time.

 _Yes,_ something whispers, _so lonely, so very alone._

Yaz stumbles down, and all of a sudden noticed she was in a graveyard. The graves are open, calling to her, and she feels her flesh become heavy.

_You could stay here, in the open graves. Become the grave, Yasmin Khan._

She does not know what is whispering in her ear, but she chooses to ignore it. She always has been stubborn.

She fights against it with all she can, until, like a miracle, she hears a voice.

“Behind you, Yaz.”

She turns, and it all goes black.

-

Yaz wakes up in a hospital gown, blue and papery, covered in the thin medical blankets given to patients in an infirmary. She’s discharged after a few days and opts to go back to her flat instead of home Her family is all too worried, though she concedes that in this scenario it’s justified, and Naomi and her have been avoiding the topic of what happened altogether.

And what did happen, exactly? Officially both Yaz and Naomi had been hit by a car, the _same_ car, though Yaz knows that isn’t what happened. There was more to it than that, so much more. They’ve discussed it exactly once, right after they had both returned to the flat together from the hospital.

They sit in silence, sipping hot tea. Yaz revels in the way it isn’t cold like the rain she’d felt hammer her body a few nights previously.

“Did…” Yaz starts, sighing into her cup. There isn’t an easy way to frame this. “What happened to you?”

Naomi is quiet for a second. “The fog…it, I don’t know. It separated me from you. I couldn’t find you. I searched, but instead I found a church, and a graveyard. They were…,” Naomi gestures frustratedly, not finding the words to describe what she’d experienced.

“Calling to you.” Yaz says softly, says _knowingly_ , because the exact same thing had happened to her.

Naomi nods. “And then I heard Evan.”

Yaz’s eyes widen. “Evan?”

“He…he told me to turn left. I did, and then I got hit.”

Yaz is quiet. “I heard…”

Naomi is quiet, but peaceful, giving her the time she needs to collect herself.

“There was a woman I knew once. Her name was the Doctor. The Doctor was a traveler, she helped people wherever she went. She invited me to go with her. She had her flaws, but I think by the end of it I was half in love with her…no, more than half.” she breathes out. “I heard her voice, you know, in the graveyard. And she said three words: “behind you, Yaz.” And so, I listened. Then I was hit too.”

They sit in silence for a long time, and none of them says anything more on the topic.

-

Since the incident, things have been going better. She’s closer with Naomi now, and forming a friendship with Michael. Nothing weird has happened in a long time, not at work or otherwise.

-

“BLOODY FUCKING ARSEHOLE!” Naomi curses, throwing her shoes off as she enters. Yaz looks up concernedly.

“What happened?”

“The fucking archivist happened. What a shithead.”

After a bit of ranting, Yaz learns that Naomi went over to the Magnus Institute to give her statement, and that the head archivist was kind of a dick.

“Well, at least you’ll never have to see him again, eh?”

-

Her tea is yellow. Not the normal kind of yellow, it’s bright yellow, and it’s bubbling up in swirls of blue and green and static.

“Michael.”

“Hm?”

“What is this?”

“Tea, of course.”

“…”

“With a few things added. For good measure.”

“Which would be?”

Michael smiles with too many teeth.

Yaz sighs, and leans back dramatically.

-

She does not know why she came here. It’s dark, and she sees no one in the streets. Her apartment building seems to loom over her, and the emptiness of the space that used to be filled with three other warm bodies makes her shiver. It is cold, in the empty.

The Doctor almost always parked here. She doesn’t know why, but it’s become as close to a grave as a random spot in the terrace of an apartment building. The TARDIS used to park here, and she sees a flash of blue and blonde hair in the depths of her memories. She smiles a bitter smile. Her breath leaves fog in the air, and her arms are folded around her for some semblance of comfort.

It does not come.

“Are you feeling lonely?”

She jumps, and turns to face the voice quickly. Her eyes widen, and she’s caught off guard. How _dare_ he attempt whatever he was trying to do here, on her _grave_.

A Lukas.

_“It’s time for you to leave. The burial is a family affair. I’m sure you want to be alone.”_

_A grey beard and a tall stature. A predatory glint in his eyes._

She doesn’t know what he is, but she knows he is dangerous.

“No, actually. I was just-”

A fog begins to set in, and her eyes narrow. She turns, but her apartment building is gone; everything is mist. She whirls back angrily, and is surprised to see him still there. He’s looking at her searchingly, with that glint in his eye, but there’s something else too.

“Why are you doing this?” her voice is sharp, and her eyes narrowed.

He smiles with too many teeth. “Well, I just wanted to get to know you, Yasmin Khan.”

“You know my name, so _scary_.” She spits.

He does not stop smiling.

“You know, you were nearly claimed by the lonely before. Judging from your mark, it was around three years ago, I’d say. Though nothing full, hm? Maybe it got a little bit misty, but then you were saved. Shame, you’d be a good fit.”  
Yaz tenses…there was no way he was referring to…

_You’re all alone Yaz. Alone, in the dark. No one is coming._

_And then someone did, and she wasn’t alone._

“I’m not alone. I was never alone, no matter what I thought.” she speaks fiercely. He seems to consider this, and is noticeably surprised by her words before he smothers it down into a carefully peaceful expression.

“No,” he agrees, “and what a shame indeed.”

Her mouth is dry, and she coughs. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me, but I’m not involved in any of this-”

“And what is this, exactly?” he looks amused.

“That’s the thing, I don’t _know_!” she’s angry now, an anger she’s felt a number of times before, though she’s never gotten worked up this easily. She’s a calm person; has to be, and yet…

His smile widens again at this, before the mist begins to recede. “Thanks for the chat, Yasmin Khan.”

He is gone before she can speak once more, and she wanders home lostly.

She does not sleep that night.

-

“Michael, meet Ryan.”

“Uh, hey Mate.”

Michael and Ryan don’t mind each other, but Michael sees it fit to antagonize him more than Graham or Yaz.

Yaz doesn’t mind; as long as Ryan comes back with all his bones in place and his mind not skewered, it’s kind of fun seeing him freak out a bit.

-

Basira is out sick. Yaz doesn’t know Basira too well; they’ve gotten a coffee together once to “celebrate” her becoming a member of Section 31. It was nice, she recalls. They’d sat in a small café and had a nice chat. Yaz also learned that they both attended the same Mosque, which was probably why Basira had looked so familiar to her.

Yaz walks down the hallway of the police building briskly, staying away from the walls. She always walks in the middle of the halls these days; not wanting them to close in on her like the dirt of the crate had. She enters her office and sits down, absentmindedly braiding her hair.

Her phone rings, and she picks it up.

“Yasmin Khan speaking.”

“ _Yaz! I’m out sick today, but I have something I really needed to do…could you do me a favor? Next time we get coffee it’s on me._ ” it’s Basira.

“Of course, what do you want me to do?” Yaz asks her.

“ _See, I needed to bring a tape to someone. It’s…off the record, if you catch my drift_.”

Yaz is curious, though Basira’s tone tells her it would be best to postpone those questions for later.

“Sure, I can do that. Where is it?”

Basira directs her to her own office, where she unlocks her drawer with the key the entire office knows Basira hides in the shallow soil of her plant cactus. A series of tapes awaits her.

“Which one?”

“ _Any one of them should work_.”

Yaz nods mutely, picking the one closest to the top of the pile and putting it in her tote.

“And you want me to deliver them to where, exactly?”

“ _The Magnus Institute, to Jonathan Sims_.”

“Jonathan Sims?” Yaz raises an eyebrow, “The rude one?”

Yaz can hear Basira cackle.

“ _Y-yeah, the rude one. Know him?”_

“My roommate had a run-in when she went to give her statement a while back. She was not a fan.”

“ _Ah, that makes sense. Well, thanks so much for the favor. I’m going have a rest._ ”

“Take care of yourself, bye.” Yaz hangs up the phone.

-

The institute looms over her threateningly, it’s dark walls cascading high into the air. It’s unremarkable in the most unnerving way.

She enters.

There is a woman in the lobby, with reddish hair and a sweet, fair complexion with rosy cheeks. She takes her down the archives after Yaz tells her that she’s coming to make a delivery.

The Archivist’s office is empty, Yaz notices, and she sighs, writing a small letter after putting the tape recorder in his desk. Best to be discreet, Yaz knows.

_Thought you might want this -Basira_

There, simple enough. She places it on top of the tape and pushes it closed, relishing the satisfying click. She’s on her way to leave, when all of a second-

“Yasmin Khan.”

For a second, she thinks it’s Lukas, but finds that assumption incorrect as she whirls around. The man in front of her is short, and has dark brown hair that waves a bit. His face would seem almost peaceful if not for his expression; Yaz notes privately that he looks the type to never truly rest.

~~(A terrible affliction is what Mary had said but she does not think of those times never ever)~~

She looks into his eyes, and immediately knows the type he is. He is like Peter, and like the woman who’d called the station just before Yaz had fallen into the crate. He is a predator.

“You know me?” she asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

“I know most things,” he says absently, staring at her. Yaz has the acute sense that something is _watching_ her, though she does not know what.

“Good for you. I’ll be going now.” she turns, and begins to head out the door of the room.

“The Doctor.”

She stops in her tracks, and whirls around once again.

“What did you say?” she says dangerously.

“The Doctor, but I think you already knew that. I have information on her…whereabouts.”

“The Doctor,” Yaz grits her teeth, “is dead.”

“No,” he smiles, and it’s a shark’s smile, though not like Michael’s, which is as comforting as it is unnerving, “she’s not.”

They’re both quiet for a second, locked in standstill.

“Tell me what you know.” Yaz breaks the silence, her voice determined and commanding.

“For a price.” his voice is sickly sweet venom, but for the Doctor, she’d drink any poison.

“Which would be?”

“Come work for me.”

Yaz blinks. “That’s it?”

He nods, and she scans his expression with narrowed eyes. He seems…sincere.

_Anything for the Doctor._

“I-”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Yaz jerks to the side, and her eyes widen.

There is a flash of blonde and blue. There is the click of boots and the smell of lilies and oil. There is the sway of a grey coat.

“Doctor.” Yaz croaks.

“Changing the timelines, Oncoming Storm? I was under the impression that was something Timelords deliberately abstain from.”

“Don’t you know? I’m not a Timelord after all.” Her voice is like ice, but she says it in a tone similar to Elias’ poison one. Sickly sweet and promising cruelty. There’s a silent exchange between the two that Yaz does not quite understand.

“No,” he agrees, lips quirking up in malice, “it appears you’re something quite different, Timeless Child.”

Yaz scours her brain in thought, she’s _sure_ she’s heard that somewhere before.

_Oh. On desolation. The remnants._

The Doctor’s eyes turn to something dark, something destructive, something not unlike Elias’. Yaz wonders if she’s seen that before, and she hates to admit that it isn’t wholly unfamiliar.

Yaz can see monsters now, and that look of pure, feral hatred directed at Elias makes her shiver, because it’s exactly the kind of thing she’s seen in the eyes of the beings like Elias and Peter and Michael and the woman.

“What do you know.” her voice is dark, and Yaz shivers at her tone.

“Too many things. Where you come from, and all those things you like to hide from your little friends. The civilizations who fear you, the names of those you could’ve saved-”

“Stop it.” she commands.

He looks amused, but does as she says.

“Yaz, would you-”

“I’m not you with _him_.” she almost snarls the last word.

“I need to ask him something, privately. Please, Yaz.” the Doctor turns to her, and gives her _that_ look.

How could she say no?

-

The Doctor enters the hallway looking shaken, a look that Yaz has seen all too many times.

“How are you alive?” she asks, and her voice cracks with tears that are now spilling out of her eyes.

“Ko Sharmus saved me. I was going to come see you all but then…I was captured.”

“Captured?”

“Imprisoned.” the Doctor elaborates. “I was…I was arrested, and taken to Stormcage.”

“Stormcage?” Yaz perks up, “where Krasko was from?”

“And other people.” the Doctor says this dully, and Yaz knows not to pry into that. Not now, at least.

“Come on, you look like a ghost. Let’s get some tea in you, yeah? You can tell me the story on the way.”

-

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you enjoyed it, this took me way too long and it's 21 pages double spaced :3
> 
> also
> 
> I'm an attention whore


End file.
